


The Fry Up

by Slantaholic_01



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cooking Lessons, M/M, Raising Steam plot spoilers, Stoker Blake persona
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slantaholic_01/pseuds/Slantaholic_01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vetinari and Vimes plan breakfast on Iron Girder before and after the attacks on the Low Queen. Spoilers for Raising Steam. First chapter contains cooking fluff; action much, much later!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapters 1-5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1. Chapters:  
> Bacon, Egg, Hash Browns, Pizza, Soss

*

**PART 1**

**Chapter 1—Bacon**

*

Vimes went into the stoker’s van. His gaze lingered on Stoker Blake, who got up rather awkwardly using his shovel like a cane.

“Sir,” whispered Vimes, “I’ve got a small favour to ask.”

“Why, Mister Vimes, I’m so chuffed. What is it that you want so early this morn?”

Vimes grabbed him by the arm and dragged him off the footplate and nearer to the furnace buckets.

Stoker Blake automatically leant on his shovel, and pulled down his cap.

Vimes said, “I’m not used to seeing you without a beard.”

Stoker Blake raised a sooty eyebrow. “I can barely contain my excitement. What is it that you want that’s interrupting my… break?”

Vimes grinned, and produced a thin rasher of bacon from inside his coat.

“What do you say to a little light breakfast, sir?”

*

**Chapter 2—Fried Egg**

*

“What’s that?”

Stoker Blake tugged his cap further over his eyebrows till his blue eyes were shielded from the sun.

Vimes grinned. “We’ve got eggs. White ones, sir.”

Stoker Blake sighed. “I can’t cook eggs in a shovel without fat. The men will be scraping it out for hours.”

Vimes said, “You mean, they clean for you?”

Stoker Blake shrugged. “I don’t know how to scrub pots,” he admitted. “Strange, yet true. It’s not a skill I’ve normally had to apply in running the city.”

Stoker Blake was resting against the cabin wall. Vimes perched on the opposite edge of the cab, behind the driver, who was steadfastly ignoring them.

He sighed. “Just cook the white eggs whole in their shells.”

“Hmm. We could boil them in the caddy.” He sounded dubious of his own ability.

Vimes got him to poke his shovel out. It was the same shovel as last time. He broke one egg in it before Stoker Blake yanked it back.

“Hold it close, like the bacon,” he advised. “If it bubbles, it’s mine. If it explodes, it’s yours, sir.”

Stoker Blake gave in. At last Vimes could teach something back.

*

**Chapter 3—Hash Browns**

*

Vimes pulled his arm and held him close.

“Hash browns?” asked Stoker Blake hopefully.

“We’ve had hash browns this morning.” Vimes frowned. “We all had hash browns.”

“Yes, but they would come already cooked.”

The shovel had burnt bits of egg stuck on since yesterday.

“Well?” asked Stoker Blake.

GOOD MORNING.

Vimes gave a wan smile to a grinning Death, who was eyeing the open breakfast package.

“I haven’t got all day,” hinted Stoker Blake. “Oh, there it is.”

“Still in character, sir?” muttered Vimes. “Ah.”

“It appears we have ‘pizza’.”

“No, sir. That’s how Detritus grabbed the food. It went through the Piecemaker first.” Vimes coughed. “What have you got against pizza? It’s easy to cook.”

Death stalked over to the package. CAN I JOIN IN, SIR SAMUEL?

Vimes said, “I can’t teach everybody! It’s bad enough with Blake.”

“Who are you talking to? Oh!” he said as Vimes whispered through his cap. “Uh, I don’t think… I could cook…”

I CAN. I WORKED AT HARGA’S HOUSE OF RIBS.

Vimes pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

*

**Chapter 4—Pizza**

*

Death, it seemed, was a perfect chef.

Stoker Blake looked dazed. It had all happened very fast. Vimes had sealed them off in the cabin at the very end of his morning shift. He was half-starved.

“Thank you,” he said as his pizza slices arrived on a metallic plate.

Vimes looked disgruntled as a mathematically measured pizza slice flew towards him. He took it and cheese burned over his hand.

Death, to Vimes, looked awkward. He pulled a beige hourglass out of his robe.

I HAVE TO LEAVE NOW, he said, and walked through the cabin wall to hover outside wearing his self-made chef’s hat. The train left him behind.

“That was interesting,” said Stoker Blake, dabbing at his mouth with his handkerchief. “Does that happen often?”

“You tell me.” Vimes pushed the shovel into the furnace to sterilise it, uh no, to burn the crusty bits further. He picked them off with his sword, and ate one.

Stoker Blake leaned forward, and with the same corner of his hanky, wiped the cheese from Vimes’ hand.

“Thank you.” Vimes looked down and smiled. “I could teach you toasted cheese sandwiches next.”

Stoker Blake sighed. “As you wish. Meanwhile, I have a shift to end.”

Vimes pulled out a cigar and lit it with the poker.

*

**Chapter 5—Soss**

*

Stoker Blake yanked Vimes into a shadowy corner that smelt of cheap liquor and   
aftershave.

Vimes grinned. “Getting used to walking off the train again?”

Stoker Blake brushed Vimes down. “You can’t talk to people covered in grass,” he   
hissed. “What did you _do_?”

“Oh, investigating a disturbance, sir. But it was a sheep I prodded with my truncheon,” he added.

“I see. You and Fred Colon and Nobby arrested a sheep?”

“Correct. Now I’ve got to go and talk to Rhys again,” he said, meaning to continue.

“Wearing grass,” stated Stoker Blake. “Turn around.”

Stoker Blake stopped brushing him down and starting picking bits out of his hair.

Vimes started laughing. He faced him, and clutched at his upper arms.

“Yes, Vimes?” Stoker Blake peeled a thin grass blade from behind his left temple.

“You could do something more interesting than stand at the back with your shovel,   
sir. Come with me.”

“You can hardly take a fireman stoker into a, a meeting hall without a few good   
shadows available. The cap doesn’t cover every eventuality.”

Vimes sighed. “Come with me. I’ll buy you a hotdog.”

Stoker Blake crossed one leg behind the other. “You like bribing me with food.”

“I don’t bribe anyone,” said Vimes. “It’s a sausage. They’re quite good for the area.”

“Hmm.” Stoker Blake unwound his leg and shifted his weight around.

Vimes paused. “Leg giving you trouble?” He offered his arm, laughter still   
decorating his facial features.

“So kind,” said Stoker Blake and accepted it.


	2. Chapters 6-9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1. Chapters:  
> Gay, The Fall, Grags, Boyfriend, Signal

*

**Chapter 6—Gay**

*

Stoker Blake slipped out of the meeting hall appointment, largely because he needed to clean his shovel. It still had bits of breakfast stuck to it; also, he needed coffee, or sweet tea, or something to get rid of the taste of the local sausages.

He’d forgotten to pack mouthwash. He’d forgotten to pack lots of things because he was sleeping amongst the men, two to a cabin, and he’d had to switch beds due to sheer worry. He’d found someone nicely introverted who didn’t snore, and smiled at him when he woke up.

His sleeping partner was also quite dim in the spectacle department and hadn’t recognised his true identity yet. He worked as a wheel-tapper, and smelled of soap not grease. He liked gears a lot, and then Stoker Blake had to tune him out, except it was getting harder now.

Havelock Vetinari suspected he was falling in love. Unfortunately, he was dressed as Stoker Blake, and would be for only some time.

His breathing had gotten softer; Vimes was friendlier to him than they’d ever been in their entire lives; and he’d gotten used to his spy persona again.

His sleeping partner was due off shift soon, and they would have some more decent time together.

*

**Chapter 7—The Fall**

*

“Well?” Vimes sounded like he was glaring at Vetinari.

Stoker Blake wound himself around a coal bucket and raised both eyebrows, masked by the cap. He felt a hand around his ankle, and looked down to see Vimes hanging on tightly.

He quickly grabbed him by the hand and dragged him back onto the train. Vimes lay on the floor, then got up on one knee. Stoker Blake dragged him upright. “What-what happened?” Vimes was pale. The driver looked round in alarm.

“I damn well bloody fell off, didn’t I?” The whole train jolted. Vimes regained his balance. His hand went to his swords. He was wearing two now, since alerted of imminent attack.

Stoker Blake jammed down the rising adrenaline inside of himself. He picked up his shovel out of weeks of using the tool.

“Put that thing down,” said Vimes, still pale. “The last thing I want is breakfast.” He shakily gripped the side of the cabin, breathing fast, sword ready.

Stoker Blake wielded it and spun it perfectly. Vimes wasn’t watching, and therefore wasn’t impressed. So he quickly stoked the furnace until it was up to a roaring heat. The gauge was impressed.

“There,” mumbled Stoker Blake and stood back.

Facing frontward, Vimes clambered up onto the top of the train, sword clutched in one fist. The wind blew his helmet off, and it clanged down by Stoker Blake’s feet, and rolled off under the train. The train screeched until the helmet buckled under the wheel. Sparks flew up. Blake hung onto the side and looked towards the engine. A checked flag wove, half-knitted by enthusiasts.

Stoker Blake tucked his shovel by the handle up under his belt, strapped to his thigh.

He climbed out onto the running plate and, hand-over-hand, made his way to the engine cabin. Dick Simnel was there.

He looked shocked when Stoker Blake dropped down.

“Has it started yet?” Stoker Blake asked. He wiped his already sweating face with his sleeve.

The temperature gauge trembled. Dick said, “What’s been happening?” and pulled the whistle. Steam billowed out for a long moment, deafening the screech.

“Vimes half-fell off the train, but he’s by the front tender now, armed and dangerous.”

“Where’s that Moist Lipwig?” Dick called for an assistant. “Go get Moist!”

Stoker Blake examined his fingernails, feeling left out.

*

**Chapter 7a—Grags**

*

The grag watched the train from atop the mountainslide. Rocks were trembling from the blast, and the delvers were trying to find a clear foothold.

Inside the cave, Ardent swept a speck of mortar from a paper scroll and continued studying. The grag outside wished for a darker sky, but the Dwarf Gods weren’t listening, and Tak remaining of them all, was probably eating a rat.

Faint wispy clouds passed under an unknowingly cold dark sky. A whistle blew.

*

**Chapter 8—Boyfriend**

*

Stoker Blake ran down the length of the sleeping compartments until he spotted the extra-thick spectacles atop a practical pile of books. His boyfriend slept with a pillow per usual over his head.

He halted, and walked softly forward. Havelock shook him awake.

“Hwah?”

“Wake up,” he hissed. “It’s starting, I think.”

“Hwhoo? Oh, it’s you.”

“It’s _me_.”

“Who-who’s around?” He peered short-sightedly around their tightly curtained area.

Stoker Blake kissed him, and as per usual, got a slight wet tongue for his trouble. He helped him pull clothes on, and handed him a dagger. “Use this. It’s better than a spanner if you have to defend yourself.”

“You’re going to fight? To save the King, the city, and Iron Girder?” He blinked owlishly.

“I had to haul Vimes back onto the train,” he said, feeling dandy and full of ginger.

“Did you get his autograph?” He kissed Stoker Blake on the cheek. “Well done!”

*

**Chapter 9—Signal**

*

The grag gave the signal. And the delvers levered the first boulder off the mountainside and onto the tracks below. It bounced off a crevice, hit the tracks just before Iron Girder flew over them, and it rolled off down the side.

“ _Again_!” he yelled, dragging his cloak over his warm robes. The wind was picking up.

Another boulder flew over the edge, landing near the guard’s van.

*

Vetinari approached Vimes.

“I’m going to the tender,” he hissed. “You?”

“The King,” stated Vimes.

Vetinari grinned, producing a stiletto in both hands. “I never thought I’d hear you say that, Vimes!”

“Fine. The guard’s van, then,” he said as a loud thump caught the back of the train, and it shuddered back-to-front.

Vimes grabbed Stoker Blake’s sooty sleeve. “Black up,” he ordered. “The cap’s not enough.”

*

The delvers tied off the ropes, and began abseiling down into the canyon.

The grags joined them.

From their viewpoint, the goblins had fled the train, and there were only two trolls left on the flatbed, both watchmen.

*

Stoker Blake leapt from the tender onto the footplate. He swung one stiletto and had it shatter against a delver’s armour; the reverb travelled up his arm and he dropped it. His hand tingled, and he snatched at his thigh-belt for the shovel.

His other arm swung out and caught a grag through its beard—he/she—giving him a, a, a throat-trim. Stoker Blake ducked and caught the axe blow on the sole remaining stiletto, still at arm’s length.

Two dwarfs, kitted up, abseiled onto the roof.

He fumbled for the shovel’s handle, caught it, and heaved it into his right palm. His fingers closed around it, and he jutted it out to the side, throwing one dwarf onto the tracks. He juggled it in one hand, dropped the stiletto—which was useless against the micromail—and both-handedly thrust the shovel into the dwarf’s eyes.

Blinded, the dwarf yelled a battle-cry and waved his axe. Miraculously, he caught the blow on the shovel’s handle. Two more inches and he would’ve been thumbless.

Havelock Vetinari’s head swung. Commander Vimes’ voice was heard, yelling up and down the train’s length. They hadn’t gotten to Rhys yet, and Moist was defending but missing.

He smiled. The Iron Girder goblins were swarming up the cliffs, jumping from rock to rock, taking out the delvers and soldiers. As the train curved round on the last of the track—something like that—he caught sight of Bluejohn bashing dwarfs together…

He caught the next attacking delver on the arm with one kick. He lashed out again, throwing his weight into it, and managed to bowl him over onto the tracks.

Vetinari grabbed hold of the tender, and scrambled back onto the train. He was missing one trouser leg and his hand burnt. He opened the furnace, stoked it automatically, and as another dwarf appeared, heaved the giant poker out and skewed the dwarf through the head.

The poker was whipped back into the flames, and the temperature gauge wobbled.

*

Vimes automatically arrested as many unconscious as he could. The train had to stop and pick up the goblins, and it was very tempting to back up the train like a carriage and run over as many grags as possible.

Out of the men—personnel, he corrected himself as Cheery approached—all but seven had survived. A handful of cleaners, engineers and misc. had scraped through, and the rest needed the usual amount of bandages, soup, and sleep.

Cheery said, “We found Moist with her majesty after all. Bluejohn thought he’d seen him fall off.”

Vimes felt the bandage around his leg loosen. He leaned against a wall.

“Get these lot arrested to be in front of me later. We need to find out names, Cheery.”

“Yes, sir.” She saluted.

“The guard’s van,” said Vimes. “Put them in there, and warn Detritus.”

Stoker Blake limped into his view, cream bandages over his hand.

Vimes, with regret, remembered the raw sausages and tomato ketchup he had planned later.

He bent over and tapped one dwarf on the helmet; it rang.

“Some are wearing micromail,” explained Stoker Blake lightly. “Weapons were all but useless.”

Crouching, Vimes looked around. “I had no problem. You-you did what?”

Stoker Blake smiled under the grime and soot, and said nothing.

Vimes glared. Cheery said, “Anything else, Mister Vimes?”

He handed her a food packet. “Put this in my quarters. Oh, and get everyone awake. Well, some of the rail workers will have to sleep on seats. We need locked rooms for the prisoners. The goblins won’t like it having to share with the humans.” Vimes managed a grin.

Cheery nodded. “Yes, sir. The next clacks tower is two miles away, unless we get the temp tower up after the second tunnel.”

“Don’t risk it,” growled Vimes. “Wait and report it at the next tower.”

After Cheery had left, Vimes felt a space welling up behind him. He turned and Stoker Blake unusually these days was wearing Vetinari’s blank expression.

Vimes felt thankful Cheery had removed the ketchup. His old fear-tingle was back. The best way to cope was to stay in character.

“Yes, Stoker Blake?” he demanded.

_Don’t I get a say in the matter?_ said Stoker Blake’s adjusted mien.

“Come on, spit it out, man. I’ve got grags to interrogate.”

With one raised bleeding eyebrow, Stoker Blake conveyed the number of unconscious dwarfs being hauled into the diner carriage and dumped under the tables.

_I killed mine_ , said Vetinari’s face.

_So did I,_ postured Vimes back. _So did everyone. These lot went down like dominoes._

_Dom-ma-what?_ asked Vetinari with an eyebrow.

_Dominoes,_ gestured Vimes, giving him a hint as he mimed toppling them with a finger.

“I see.”

Out loud, Vimes said, “You smell. I had sausages planned after your shift.”

Vetinari said, tightly holding onto his hand bandage—the left, which was going to make it awkward for the cane later, and for shaving—“I’m feeling very spritely after the goblins dosed me with Moist’s magical medicine. Do you know what it is?”

Vimes said, after a double-take, “Detritus says it’s made from mushrooms, not Slab, not Slither, not Silky, not pollen after Cheery tested it for hayfever. It’s psychedelic, but an important part of—” he spat on the floor “—goblin culture.”

“Ah, I wondered… up and down the train… why there were so many rainbows in this region, especially as we’ve left most of the waterfalls behind in the Paps of Scilla.”

He carefully brushed some of Vimes’ last meal off the seat and sat down. “How many of us died?”

Vimes said, “Seven, at the last count. Twenty-one injured, including us and Cheery. I don’t think anyone was unscathed after they rushed the armoured carriages. D’you know they came through the floor? We had one hanging underneath with a blow-torch.”

“A dragon?” asked Vetinari, touching himself up with soot. His forehead had stopped bleeding.

“No, a tool. It exploded, and he or she is unconscious in here somewhere.”

“By der door,” said Detritus, looming into the diner. He dumped two more kits of abseiling equipment down on a diseased dwarf with a severely pocked face.

Vimes resisted giving the dwarfs a kick. Vetinari noticed his leg twitch.

“You’re injured there,” said Vetinari simply. To Vimes, however, who was used to political iciness from the man, he sounded fired up and ready to fight again.

Vimes said, “I want you back on the front. Not the damn firebox again, but nearer the tender. Keep an eye out until we hit the clacks tower. And keep Dick Simnel away.”

“Yes, sir,” said Vetinari, rolling his eyes. “Understood at once, sir.”

Vimes stood up and followed Detritus.


	3. Chapters 10-14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1. Chapters:  
> Fred and Nobby Investigate, Hotdogs, Lemon, Eldritch, Bunk Beds

*

**Chapter 10—Fred and Nobby Investigate**

*

The next thing the train Iron Girder hit was a landslide, warned in advance from some plucky kids. Moist was still over there negotiating with the linesmen in a hut.

Stoker Blake was unusually missing from upturned teatime. The other stokers and cleaners and the odd short-sighted wheel-tapper were having hearty lamb and vegetable stew, largely spilled on the floor by the sudden halt.

Vetinari slipped out from under his spy persona and was waiting inside Vimes’ small, cramped, and above all, smelly quarters. It contained a standard bunk, blankets, a small chest, and bizarrely his favourite square of cardboard on the floor like a poor substitute for a rug.

And Vimes called _him_ weird.

He investigated his trunk and found the usual cut-throat razor, lockpicks, spare clothing, spare ketchup bottle, swords, smaller weapons, and… his police badge.

It was the newer one Captain Carrot had issued for them all, not the pointy cheap thing Vimes wore with pride.

There were no tights, but a much-folded pair of pantaloons and a crumpled expensive shirt. The official helmet had trimmed plumes plucked out with gusto.

At the very bottom, there was a small unscrewed bottle of whisky, and no false panel. Vetinari idly wondered where Vimes kept his cash.

He was just replacing everything when the door thumped due to the lock. He closed the trunk, and unlocked the door. It was Fred Colon, who peered at him.

Fred Colon must of recognised him, because he immediately perspired fear-sweat.

“Sir!” shouted Stoker Blake quickly.

“Er,” said Fred, frowning.

“Got locked in the room by Vimes, sir… uh, checking for clues!”

“Clues,” repeated Fred. Nobby leaned into view, and the two leaned forward and glanced round the room.

“Could be under the mat,” said Nobby, grinning. “Who are you?” He produced a pair of handcuffs.

Vetinari presented both wrists. Fred’s eyes darted from him to Nobby and back again.

“Ah,” said Vetinari, breaking character. He stepped back and sweated, which was easier with Fred Colon in the room, who shedded heat like a volcano.

Nobby, twirling the handcuffs in the corridor, was eclipsed by Fred, who shut the door.

“Sam told me who you are,” spouted Colon. “He confided in us, but not Carrot and Nobby or Detritus.”

“I see.” Vetinari fiddled with his glove, and half-rolled it down to re-tie the bandage. “Well done,” said Vetinari automatically. “I heard you were in the fight.”

Colon heaved a sigh of relief. “We all were. The buggers came up through the floor. Nobby and me had a hard time trying to stop the Queen and Aeron from stabbing them all. All the dwarfs changed into soldiers like that.” He clicked his fingers.

“I had the ones with micromail,” said Vetinari. “It was easier to, uh, knock them off the footplate.” He just in time remembered who he was talking to.

Colon said, “There’s a dead body there they found with a poker skewered through it.”

Vetinari said nothing apart from, “Hmm?”

“We found this weird corpse with its head stuck up in the roof the other day.”

“That wasn’t me,” said Vetinari. “That was an… Ankh-Morpork-like suicide, playing with steam and fire.”

“No,” said Fred Colon firmly. “We just found it. Someone on board tried to hang themselves, and its head popped off after the rope shrunk.”

“Ah,” said Vetinari. “An incident I was unaware of. I do hope the men aren’t working too hard.”

“And Cheery,” added Colon, “couldn’t find Killer John Wagstaff at dinner two weeks after the job. He’s supposed to be on board.” Trembling, he gave Stoker Blake a keen look.

“I think he’s in Skund, or had a very brief return from his holiday earlier on,” said Vetinari carefully. Colon produced a notebook and wrote this down. He had an expression like, _Leave Sam Vimes’ room alone._

“All right,” said Colon, looking a tiny bit pleased. “You can go now.” He opened the door. Vetinari slunk out with his cap pulled low and his uninjured hand in his pocket.

Nobby slapped the handcuff on his injured hand instead.

*

**Chapter 11—Hotdogs**

*

The large poker had been cleaned, and the driver on duty gave him a dainty salute before Stoker Blake returned to work.

*

Vimes unexpectedly showed up, tired, grimy and beaming. He wrestled open a food packet.

“Today,” he said, “I’m going to instruct you in the correct method of cooking sausages to produce the right amount of artery-clanging burnt crispy bits.”

Stoker Blake swallowed down, _My word_ , and said, “Alright.”

Vimes winked at the driver, and brought out the ketchup and three sesame buns.

Fourteen minutes later, and Stoker Blake was tucking into an ‘alright’ sausage inna bun with green herby flecks and red plum bits. Vimes was holding two hotdogs with tongs and trying to burn them to a crisp. Stoker Blake refrained to add more coal. The flames were still productive enough to work the engine.

He worried. For once, he was slightly more injured than his current boyfriend. Usually, they were killed. In fact the gayer they were, the more likely. He suspected the Gods had a terrible secret sense of sin sometimes, and so did Narravitia.

Moist von Lipwig, on the other hand, looked a nervous wreck and needed a helping hand. Possibly, he was the new one under the limelight. His point of view certainly mattered to Dick Simnel, where previously it hit the Ankh-Morporkian public and _The Times_ ’ audience.

Stoker—Vetinari gulped the last of the meal, and stood quickly, getting indigestion pains immediately. He pressed one hand to his belly, and with the other, intentionally stroked Vimes’ arm.

Vimes dropped a hotdog into the furnace. “What?!” he said, turning to Vetinari. “Oh, you’re injured.”

“No,” said Vetinari, dropping both arms to each side. “Um,” he said and sat back down again. He glanced at the temperature gauge. The needle was slightly lower than work dictated.

He unscrewed his flask and offered coffee to Vimes as an apology. Vimes waved it away, and Vetinari poured out a cup. The liquid sloshed to the movement of the train. Goblins were crawling all over Iron Girder, attempting to repair her on the move for some technical reason, oh, he forgot. He wasn’t an engineer, just a plain stoker.

**Inside, deep inside, Vetinari grinned…**

Vimes wondered, looking up and down his flaming hotdog. He gripped the third one for the driver in the tongs tightly. “There’s another place they can attack us up ahead.”

“You talk like I’ve never studied geography. I could teach you far more about the political aspects of the river trade than Captain Carrot could bore you about Bonk.”

Vimes grunted. “Don’t bother. This hotdog is not the same as your sausage. I got them to buy a pretty one for you. It was boar and had plums in it.”

Vetinari was silent. His stomach gurgled uncomfortably.

Vimes continued, “It wasn’t the boar, because I’ve got hotdogs from the same place. Perhaps the river trade over-ripened the plums, ah-er, Blake?” His tone was oddly unworried.

Inwardly, he gave up, and poured his cup of undrank coffee back into the flask. There was a beer bottle around here somewhere…

Stoker Blake felt with his good foot under the bench he sat on. The bottle toppled over with a clink and rolled back and forth.

Vimes asked, “Do the men piss into that?” He sounded like he was laughing. “Do you need a moment?” he added, cheerfully.

“No,” he said. He scraped open the bottle lid using the bench. He drank some weak beer, and got out his handkerchief.

Stoker Blake belched, and attempted to replace the lid upon the bottle.

Vimes watched him. “The lid doesn’t work like that.” He sighed. “Tomorrow, I’m going to have to teach you how to cook something… organic, and, damn it, like one of Sybil’s healthy smoothies. I think you’re in the same trouble I had in Uberwald with the herby flecks.”

*

**Chapter 12—Lemon**

*

“How,” asked Stoker Blake, “is _this_ supposed to go into a furnace?” He prodded the fruit. “I believe I may need sugar to caramelise it.”

“We could make toffee,” suggested Vimes, chuckling. He whipped out a potato masher. “We’ll have to pulp the fruit first.” He winked.

“ _Peel_ it,” said Blake, handing over the oranges. There was a punnet of berries, and some lemons.

“Those are very popular for killing vampires,” said Vimes happily. “Terrible places some of these hamlets. We had to initiate the tourist industry in one of them so Fred and Cheery could go shopping.”

Vetinari stoked the fire rebelliously up to a crescendo on the gauge and shut the door. He plucked his way through the redcurrants, raspberries and elderberries, and ate a few.

He dusted off his hands and nodded imperceptibly. “I don’t think our ‘breakfast’ is working today, Vimes. You can have the fruit back, gladly, unless you don’t mind me handing them around the men like Moist von Lipwig and his pineapple hampers.”

Vimes shrugged, peeling an orange for himself. “You can take the berries. Perhaps the chef will make the jam.”

Vimes then said, “Have you heard anything?”

Vetinari leaned forward. “What about? Precisely!” As Vimes gestured, not mimed.

“No, no, no.” Stoker Blake rubbed at the sweat beading around his neck and forehead.

Vimes stared, and stopped miming. “Is that a lovebite? It’s not a vampi—?” He pinned Vetinari to the bench and checked, brushing away soot. He whistled under his breath. “You lucky, lucky bastard.” He let go, and backed off.

Vetinari exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Uhm, yes,” he said, while mentally adding: _I’ve been a lot more relaxed, haven’t I?_

Vimes smiled. “So that’s why you’re not bunking in with us. Who is it? A dwarf?”

Stoker Blake gently coughed, sounding as if he was full of blushing shyness under the soot.

Vimes went wide-eyed. “One of, one of the goblin girls?”

“No. One of the, one of the… people… on board.” He examined his fingernails, full of grease and soot.

Vimes sat back. “After we lost Killer John Wagstaff, we’ve picked up three seamstresses, one camp follower boy, two washerwomen, another goblin, and a young clacks kid.”

“However, I was not told about all the stowaways we’ve acquired.” He gave Vimes a pointed look. “This is not a regular train ride. This is an entirely different type of mission.”

“We drop most of them off somewhere decent,” said Vimes. “Usually the next stop.”

He leant over and patted Vetinari on the arm. “Well done,” he said gruffly. “Good to know you’ve still got it in you.”

Havelock Vetinari bit his lip to stop laughing.

Somewhere in the furnace, the lemon exploded.

*

**Chapter 13—Eldritch**

*

Stoker Blake opened the furnace door, expecting tentacles or wizard hijinks, and found a lemon with fangs grinning back at him.

“Hoy! Hello!” said the lemon.

Vimes prodded it with the full-length poker. It was steel, however, not iron.

“Vampires dislike fire,” said Stoker Blake carefully.

“I was made by Igor Up The Hill,” explained the lemon. It started to sing, but the steel poker failed to join in, and so did the humans. “Oh dear, poor old dear,” it said. “I was purchased by the wrong people.”

Vimes flicked it out the furnace and onto the tracks. There was a brief jolt, and they left the singing fruit squished onto the rails.

With Morporkian survival instinct, they checked the remains of ‘breakfast’.

*

**Chapter 14—Bunk Beds**

*

Fred Colon and Nobby Nobbs found Stoker Blake, a.k.a. Lord Vetinari, hanging onto Sam Vimes, and both of them were staggering against Iron Girder’s natural sway.

Blake was holding a basket, and Vimes, as he passed, smelt of oranges.

He also looked like he’d been laughing, and Blake had been rumoured to have gotten drunk last night, but was always too blackened up to tell.

Something went ‘clunk’ inside of Fred. He watched them in the window’s reflection as Vimes ushered Vetinari into his compact bedroom.

Nobby had turned round and was nudging Fred in the hip and sniggering.

*

Vetinari pushed Vimes down on his bed, and sat on him. The door was open and kept swinging to.

Sam Vimes shoved Havelock Vetinari off his legs and onto the bare mattress. There was a pile of fresh sheets atop his pillow, and his towels hadn’t returned from the laundry. There had been too much blood, and the mattress was stained unfortunately rusty red.

Vetinari looked unimpressed, and moved closer to the wall away from where his leg and chest had bled.

Vimes stood up and locked the door. He went to his trunk and retrieved a bottle of Sybil’s tonic, and, with an afterthought, a small potion jar.

He took a swig of the tonic, said, “One sip,” to Vetinari and handed it over. He got it handed back, and Vetinari next investigated the potion.

“What’s this?” he asked, as Vimes began to stuff his bare pillow into a new pillowcase.

“Put it on your hand,” ordered Vimes. “It works better than the bandage you keep playing with.” A speckly feather flew up and floated through the air.

Havelock said, “I’ve never done that in my life. Ah.” More feathers arrived in the air as Vimes squashed the pillow in tight. He folded the flap down.

“Ah,” repeated Havelock, thoroughly enjoying himself now. Vimes gave him a look. He flattened the pillow back into shape. The feather darts poked through.

“Er, the sheet next, I take it?” Havelock bounced off the bunk, causing the wood to creak loudly. He started trying not to grin. The last few weeks had been filled with wooden creaking bunks full of fun.

Vimes hugged his laundry to his chest, and in a very odd surreal moment for both of them, this not filled with amusing breakfasts and political defence and danger, unfolded the bed sheet and handed two corners of the far end to Havelock Vetinari.

Vimes had found out the man could cook in a boiling hot orange furnace without realising most of the stokers couldn’t yet, but Vetinari couldn’t cook. Most things came out burnt and crispy to Vimes’ liking.

He now found out Vetinari knew, unlike most of the upper classes, how to operate a sheet. But Vetinari had also graduated: shaving himself, washing himself, and dressing himself, unlike the rest of Scoone Avenue inhabitants. Vimes wasn’t sure about the latest, Moist von Lipwig; those suits came out too neatly done up.

Carrot must have been giving Vetinari discrete Care In The Community lessons. He even put the top sheet and woolly blanket on correctly, having spotted Vimes’ slight leg twitch.

Havelock Vetinari bent over and smoothed the top blanket. Then he collapsed on the bunk again. Vimes put his laundry away, and as it was his bunk, sat on it.

Vimes tried to jolly both of them along. “Talking lemons, eh? What’s next? You’re all right, but I had the oranges.”

Stoker Blake played with his bandage, smearing some of the ointment underneath. “Why did you manipulate me into,” he said, “making your bed? I’m tired from the end of my shift. I have another shift later today as well.” Because he was Stoker Blake, he yawned dramatically.

“I know. You take overtime all over the place. We’re paying you to.”

*

Vetinari stalked down towards his sleeping compartment. His boyfriend looked up, and wiped his glasses.

“You’re late back. Something keep you?”

Vetinari hesitated. He thought about getting a speckly feather out of his pocket, and showing it to him. It would be the quietest way to split up. Iron Girder was fast approaching Ohulan Cutash.

He prepared a large bowl of lukewarm water outside, had a quick wash alone, and dived back in. He tugged the curtains together.

“Hwah? I was about to read a good book tonight, if you weren’t back yet,” he suggested. He leaned in for a kiss and came away with a soap sud tickling his nose. He wiped Stoker Blake’s face, and kissed his earlobe. He took his cap off and mussed up his hair.

*


	4. Chapters 15-17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1. Chapters:  
> Dwarfs, Loss of the Flyer, Pickle

*

**Chapter 15—Dwarfs**

*

Vimes had runny soft-boiled eggs for breakfast, around five in the morning, after the midnight feast in Ohulan Cutash.

Vimes burped, excused himself and went to talk to the Queen. He left the armoured vehicle behind, as it was empty, and lowered himself over the side of the unmoving train to peer underneath.

A lot of dwarfs stared back.

“You make a lot of noise with your feet,” said Aeron. “You’re not very dwarfish.” He made ‘dark’ of it.

The dwarfs tittered. “We’re trying on dresses,” joked the Queen. “We can use the new ‘hatchway’ as a surprise entrance on the ‘catwalk’.”

There was more tittering.

Vimes hoisted himself down onto the ground, and inadvertently stepped into a cowpat.

“Mind your feet, sir,” called Cheery from above. “This used to be a field.” She sat on the flatbed and swung her legs over the side. “Detritus is teaching Simnel how _not_ to repair the Piecemaker, and Bluejohn is playing with the handcar.”

“Carry on,” said the Queen. She was moving awkwardly, but not with a human pregnant gait. Vimes gave up, and couldn’t tell if she was injured or not.

“Aeron,” he said. “I’d like a word.”

Vimes led him over to a bush. Aeron watched Vimes poke his sword underneath the leaves and check that it was empty.

“The bush appears to be, uh, thoroughly poked through,” he said after a while.

“I’m checking,” said Vimes. “I’ve gone through all ten carriages, barring the coal wagon and woodpile, and,” he added, “the large metal water barrel, and so forth. We’ve lost two prisoners and four witnesses. I’ve got men searching the tender.”

“Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs?” asked Aeron. Vimes nodded.

Aeron said, “What do they look like? And how useful are they, because we’ll shoot on sight. But,” he added, “why do you think they’re aboard the train somewhere? I would’ve escaped, and I’m a dwarf.”

Vimes said, “They’re wearing handcuffs, and two carriages contain anvils. One’s yours, sir.”

“I give you full permission with myself present to search our carriage, but my guards can do that, and very good work too. But I stress that even without an anvil, a dwarf can remove iron very well with a hammer. Metal twists easy under duress.”

“Thank you, sir. Can we stop the catwalk hatchway…?”

“Ah, the fascination of the female psyche,” said Aeron smoothly. “I wouldn’t consider it.”

*

Colon left Nobby in the woodpile with Of the Twilight the Darkness searching the privies as he scrubbed. Some of the other goblins were checking the coal and water.

“Oh deary me,” called an eager voice from behind a corner. Colon investigated with his usual aplomb.

“What’s all this fuss going on, eh? People you are blocking a corridor which is a health and safety crime zone aboard this train.” Colon turned the corner, and saw Nobby lighting up fags with the goblins. One of those passed around was Vimes’ cigar.

They looked up, perhaps guilty. Nobby sidled into a darkened corner and stood an inch taller than he normally did.

“Get off my foot,” quietly shouted the corner. There was a brief “Yuck!” and Nobby was shoved off. A white handkerchief showed up and someone spat on their hands to rub off Nobby’s strange-smelling ointment he’d been using since he was seventeen.

Fred Colon yanked Nobby back over by the collar and let go. “Nobby, goblins—what goes the provisions?”

“Sarge,” said Nobby, pocketing the match-book, “who’s biting you?”

Fred thrusted his elbows backwards and someone went: “Oof!”

He turned round and kicked the fanged person between the legs, then as some guy clutched him, kicked him in the hip, then the arse. Nobby dove in and kicked him in ribs for good measure.

A goblin sized up the scene between her fingers and thumbs, like a good shot for an iconograph. Colon had a brief realisation that she could be Nobby’s girlfriend, the one he brought back to their shared room a few times. It had gotten awkward, being the one left out for a change.

The vampire stood up and punched a goblin in the face. Picked up another and threw their body through the window. The glass smashed, and a lone transfigured raven zipped out.

Of the Twilight the Darkness sprang around the room, checking people, and leaving the humans till last.

Colon found his voice. “Man overboard!” he called, and set off at a bad run. Nobby followed and caught him up. Together, they ran into the first seating carriage, where the engineers, drivers, and stokers hung out.

*

**Chapter 16—Loss of the Flyer**

*

With a whistle, Iron Girder set off, and they all adjusted their balance. One dwarf guard accidentally dropped her spear.

Vimes said, “Where?”

Aeron and Queen Rhys opened one door and led Vimes to a bigger than he expected smithy. There was one large iron, a petite anvil, and a dwarf stove. Laid on the anvil, were some pretty rocks and gemstones, and chipping tools.

“We’re making rings,” explained the Queen.

“Early stages,” said Aeron, holding her hand. They looked in love.

Vimes turned round, and one dwarf guard had tears rolling down into their beard. Someone also sniffed in happiness. There was a spontaneous quiet clapping from servants at the back.

All appeared as it seemed, Vimes thought. They left the room, and as couples do, arguing about heat of the stove.

Vimes overheard and said, “You could try the firebox at the front.”

Aeron frowned. “I heard it doesn’t get stoked enough, but one stoker in particular keeps trying to beat the temperature gauge with frying bacon and eggs, and you know whom.”

The Queen laughed, and they held hands again.

“I could, you know,” she said. “We’ve been on the front footplate before, haven’t we? I’m almost sure with Commander Vimes and the, er, infamous Stoker Blake we’ll be safe enough to reforge the signet.”

*

Detritus woke in the guard’s van with the steam engine halting, and Moist von Lipwig dancing over his belly. He got up faster than him, as well.

As a watchman, he kept a clean mind for crime and looking for clues.

The current clue was Moist’s shadow shortening as he leapt out the door, and letting a cool breeze in to wake up Detritus’ faster thinking.

He sat up, and with a sigh, picked up his famous Piecemaker and checked the wind-up.

Detritus slammed his hand down and woke up his (really Vimes’ old) disorganiser.

“Derlingerly-derlingerly-dat!” it cried. “Mission ten reminder: Wind Piecemaker. Mission nine reminder: Frisk Nobby for food. Mission seven-ay: Clean armour. Mission seven: Help Bluejohn remember cart. Mission six: Learning pedalling from Sarge Colon. Mission five: Find eggs. Mission four: Pat self on back. Mission three: Remember to sleep. Mission two: Miss Ruby and Brick. Mission one: WAKE UP, DETRITUS!”

Sergeant Detritus banged on the wall. Bluejohn hurried in.

“Bluejohn. Help me up.” Bluejohn started laughing.

*

The Queen left Aeron bickering with the guards over wedding patterns. She hid, and the King was stuck out on the footplate talking to Simnel majestically.

All of a sudden, the train began to screech to a standstill. The current driver yelled, “We had to brake sharp, sir!”

Simnel grabbed an assistant who pulled out a Make-It-Bigger device. It honed on the lighted clackstower, where there were checkered boards flickering like naval flags. The Queen had heard Ankh-Morpork was using a centuries-old code. A clacksman deciphered it, with lips moving only.

“The Flyer’s been derailed up ahead, sir!” he said to them quietly.

Simnel said, “I can’t see a thing. It should have lights on.”

The King said, “Allow me. Hoist me up.” And Simnel’s assistants obeyed.

“Dwarfs can see in the dark,” she let on. “Yes, the track’s now on fire, about eleven yards ahead. No octarine. You can put me down now.” She thought quickly. “Brake harder!” she called to the driver.

He hauled on the line and flattened a fastened lever with his weight. The train slowed and stopped just before the pale flames. Most of the staff and engineering crew had woken up, and the Queen was surprised to find Moist was up first, pulling himself onto the footplate by the engine, and not looking like himself.

*

**Chapter 17—Pickle**

*

The next few days were very eventful. The loss of the Flyer, attack by delvers, and Iron Girder repaired by friendly gnomes. The goblins were still talking about them.

Moist von Lipwig had stumbled back after talking to Dick Simnel about sleep, and rest, and overworking everybody. Most of the engineers didn’t have a decent bed anymore, while others that could were sleeping top-to-tail in the same bunk.

The prisoners were in two compartments, and the worst tied up in the guard’s van, guarded by Detritus, Cheery and Bluejohn in long shifts.

Several of the ‘delvers’ were no longer on the grags’ side, but were gradually reading a copy of Madam Shatta’s fashion catalogue. Cheery had to show them her lipstick, after all, she was one of the few who started the feminine revolution, and was the first above ground to wear a skirt.

Dick Simnel was coming to terms over how quietly famous some of the police officers were.

Cheery Littlebottom was a former alchemist, turned forensics. She was the first female dwarf watchwoman out and proud as a feminist. The first to wear make-up and skirts, encouraged by Captain Angua.

Detritus first worked as a bouncer/splatter at the Mended Drum. Next, he starred in Holy Wood, largely in troll flicks but without knowing it. In the credits, he was usually Troll 7, and filmed dragging trees and flowers around silently. He’d saved a lot of people’s lives by holding the ceiling up, and had to be rescued by that Victor guy who was the real hero after all, not just an actor.

Thereafter, he’d quit his role as a splatter and became a watchman. He, with Captain Carrot, employed more trolls and dwarfs in the Watch than anyone else. He was head of the entire troll squad in the Watch, and he’d risen to Sergeant naturally. He started the Care In The Community for trolls, namely troll street kids, and an anti-drug awareness scheme, which was well-known. He was the only troll to simultaneously go against Chrysophrase _and_ use him to find other troll criminals, supplying worse drugs into the city.

Eh-up, they’d been helped by other people, like Captain Carrot, Captain Angua, and Commander Vimes. Everybody said so, trying to demean them. It hadn’t helped, from Dick’s point of view, that Detritus’ wife used to formerly work as a stripper, and they’d adopted a drug-riddled teen.

Dick, on the other hand, knew how life worked. He was so pleased when he found himself heart-thumpingly in love with Sir Harry King’s daughter, Emily, who looked fabulous in white. But everybody knew that women couldn’t be engineers.

*

Vetinari, listened with half an ear, to Dick Simnel’s speech about women. It was better than last time, because he talked about Cheery Littlebottom, and bizarrely Detritus’ wife, Ruby. It sounded like lipstick was evil, skirts were pretty, and avoid strippers.

He then talked more about people’s wives and mothers, and single lady compartments, and about the Moving Picture stars, Victor’s and Ginger’s encounter with a white dress and a hot air—Vetinari frowned at the technical term—ventilation cover.

It sounded like he was forbidding certain magazines from circulating around the ‘break-time’ Moist von Lipwig had granted, but Vetinari couldn’t be sure.

Perhaps _he_ needed the holiday, as well.

*

Moist von Lipwig caught Dick Simnel at an early stage, agreed the engineers. No one fancied women trolls apart from trolls, and Detritus was surprised at how much gossip was about his wife and kid.

Another copy of Madam Shatta’s micromail fashion list had started to circulate round the humans.

Stoker Blake returned to his bunk to find his boyfriend reading it aloud to a small group of friends. The curtains were pushed back, and he excused himself before his boyfriend noticed him. He washed in someone’s richer than ‘he’ currently was cubicle, smoothed his hair, inspected the stubble, and switched caps.

He was expected to keep to the same outfit four days a week, with laundry in the middle, and all eight days next before he could change again. Everyone smelled, but after the water compartment had been tampered with, and repaired by elves or gnomes or some weird specie, water was protected.

The next stop with a pond would find him swimming in it.

He turned his coat collar up, pulled down his brim, and made his way to the posher end of the locomotive where Moist von Lipwig stayed.

To his surprise, two injured personnel were there.

“Try the guard’s van,” they suggested. “Shut the door.”

Vetinari limped into the diner carriage. The tables had multifunctional use as people were playing Thud, chess, and plain old eating. He left after picking up a cheese roll and a pot of pickle.

*

Vimes was surprised as fuck to locate Lord Vetinari eating a swiss roll in front of bound and gagged dwarf grags, who were imbeciles loaded with wrong-way Tak rhetoric, no metaphors, and possessing magic: mostly ring-making and imbuing. One twist, one curse.

The guards had all but severed their fingers off, and had to remove their shoes for toe-rings and ankle-bracelets. They activated at will, largely Tak’s will, which was why the Iron Girder protectors had been lucky, very lucky indeed.

Vetinari looked as if he’d forgotten about magic, like Vimes did time to time and so did all of them apart from the wizards. Even witches who prohibited magic forgot about it. Dwarfs were known for mean spell-casting, broomstick-manufacture, and every last mining technique through the magical realms of the Ramtops and Uberwald.

They’d had to strip the dwarfs of everything, but out of respect, hadn’t shaved off their beards. The ones in the guard’s van were wearing sacks and shivering.

Vetinari dropped a crumb, and let it roll down his coat. He swept it away without thinking.

Vimes trod on it in case it turned into something. It was yellow, it was small, and it was cheese. When he’d removed his boot, it was pink, it was wobbling, and it was scaring Vetinari, who’d scooted into a shadow.

A dwarf guard picked up a stave and flew the pink wobbling thing out of the window. Uberwald could kill anything. The reports suggested fifty-one foot chickens were commonplace everywhere there were Igors. Pink wobbly things didn’t scare vampires as they were easier to zap.

Bluejohn patted the wall gently. Vimes was puzzled about most of things trolls did; so were the dwarf guards.

Vimes never thought he would do this. But he went into the shadowy bit, grabbed Vetinari’s ankle and dragged him out, grinning and clawing at the walls. He checked; it was Vetinari. ‘Stoker Blake’ was ‘asleep’ inside his mind somewhere.

Vetinari pulled himself up very quickly using Vimes’ armour as a ladder.

Vimes yanked him through the door to outside. Vetinari moved into suave assassin mode, and balanced a pot of pickle atop the safety rail and tasted it.

“This is a perfect condiment for sausages,” he suggested. “There’s a very subtle flavour of onions, which is better than the fried onions we had yesterday.”

Vimes smiled wanly. Stoker Blake was back, who was friendlier, nicer, creepier when fighting, and better dressed. He also ate more, weighed more (so Vimes stopped insulting him inside his head), and was attached to a member of the crew. He hadn’t said anything, but there were a lot of men and very few women on board, and Vetinari was very happy.

Come to think of it, Vimes realised, all those pictures in _The Times_ of Carrot with his shirt off made Vetinari praise them ever more for catching criminals and becoming the front page.

He didn’t dare say anything. The icy creepy boss he’d been dealing with for, oh, about twenty years now may suddenly decide to assassinate him if he was wrong. Some people did that; he’d arrested them later for murder. Two were really high up, and… Vetinari had been upset, if that indeed was his upset behaviour. He went quiet, withdrawn, disappeared for days, slept in, didn’t eat, and he’d been like that for twenty years working non-stop and marrying a city.

_Oh gods, oh gods,_ Havelock Vetinari, thought Vimes, was giving off the strange weird air that Aeron and Rhys had after they’d walked through a corridor and were no longer there.

Damn it. The man was in love, but not in the eyes. Just the weird air. Vimes rubbed his face. If Angua was here, she would’ve described it as blue to purpley-pink _grrrls_.

Vetinari flicked the pot of pickle back into the palm of his right hand. “I take it you’re not interested, Vimes.”

Vimes stepped out onto a branch, a very thick one compared to what happens if you ask someone if they’re in love with a man, and it turns out there are and would never admit it.

“Havelock?”

Vetinari stared at him. “I’m Stoker Blake,” he confirmed. He was still staring. “Have you heard from Lady Sybil?” he asked.

“No.” Vimes thought about laughing gleefully, but there was something stuck in his chest. Actually, there _was_ something tight stuck in his chest. He placed a hand on his heart.

Vetinari was giving him a strange stare. He glanced at the hand and back at his face. “You’re going pale,” he said, holding his head steady. His poise changed to that of an elderly wound-up man.

Vimes’ legs trembled and he sweated under the armpits and across his forehead. He gripped the rail and sank to the floor. Vetinari joined him at the same time, and set down the pot. He was still looking strange, and he checked for Vimes’ pulse on his wrist.

“Poison, or, hmm, magic?” he asked. He was watching him with another stare.

Vimes thought back to a whirl of leaflets and articles Lady Sybil had read to him about heart attacks and healthy eating.

“Fry ups,” he managed.

“I can’t get to the… that fast…” Vetinari turned to kick the door behind him. “It’s Mister Vimes!” he yelled as Stoker Blake.

Detritus burst out. “Sam, what’s happening?” he shouted. “An arrow got you?”

Stoker Blake was almost swept off the train by Detritus, who was going motherly like a duck over a baby duckling.

“No,” panted Vetinari. “Heart attack, I think.” He must have had a whirl. “Arteries, fat build-up, oh fuck, the sausages—”

“The bacon,” croaked Vimes, “tasted wonderful.”

Vetinari tightly grabbed his wrist by the pulse points. “Fried eggs, too,” he said, with a worried expression.

“Fried tomatoes and onions,” said Vimes, feeling far away and heavy-chested.

“We didn’t get as far as fried bread. The loaf was on fire. How people cook toast, I have no idea. They told me to try eggy bread next.”

“Dat’s healthy!” cried Detritus. He ripped Vimes’ shirt open, got Vimes to lay flat, and placed both hands in troll-flick positions on Vimes’ chest. He nodded at Stoker Blake. “You can breathe for him if he stops, can you?”

Vetinari nodded, and grabbed Vimes by the wrist again.

Bluejohn swung the guard’s door shut. The opposite window opened and fireworks poured out. At least Vimes would have a good send-off.

Vimes drew in breath after shaky breath, whilst his face went grey and clammy.

They were interrupted by the other compartment’s door opening. A goblin squeaked and hurriedly shut the door. Vetinari tried to block out the muted conversation, but the door opened again, and Nobby Nobbs showed up. His face paled at the sight of Vimes on the floor, and he did his trousers up.

Vimes must have spotted him because he stopped breathing.

Vetinari looked down feeling wretched, hoped he could remember Carrot’s rather distant life-saving course when the dummy ran away, and he breathed into Vimes’ mouth.

Nobby said, “You’ve got to pinch his nose.” Vetinari complied.

Detritus was counting out loud, and flicked his chest.

“Again,” Nobby commanded. “Igor said you’ve gotta do it twice before you breathe into ’em.”

Vetinari and Detritus kept the pace up for what felt like over a minute. A shadow passed by overhead caused by a moving cloud.

*

SAM VIMES?

Vimes sat up, and stopped wincing. A very surreal scene was taking place around him. Nobby was giving the orders for once.

Vimes did the best thing he could think of and lay back down inside his body, but he could see his ghostly nose was out of place. The technique they were perfecting timing on was quite good, but bloody hell, Vetinari was out of practice. He’d have to tell Carrot about this.

Death tapped an hourglass. The top bulb was all right-ish. He was over fifty and had possibly enough left for eighty.

“Thank you for cooking the pizza the other day,” said Vimes.

DON’T MENTION IT, COMMANDER. IT TASTED BETTER THAN THE PINK WOBBLY THING THAT ENDED UP IN MY MOUTH.

“It started life as cheese,” was all Vimes could think of as way of explanation.

OH, said Death. IT TASTED LIKE SANDPAPER.

“Sorry about that,” said Vimes cheerfully.

Death leaned forward. DROP SOMETHING LIKE CURRY NEXT TIME, SAM.

“It’s Mister Vimes,” said Sam Vimes, and drifted backwards.

*

“Wha?” asked Vimes. Vetinari stopped lip-locking and cried, “He’s alive!”

Detritus sat back on his heels, and smiled. He gripped Vimes’ arm in a gentle troll hug. “Well done, sir,” he said. “Made it through again.”

Vetinari stared. “How many times has he had a heart attack? Tell me!”

“Once before,” grunted Vimes. “It’s usually arrows.”

“Hmm.” Vetinari checked his pulse. “It’s subsiding,” he muttered.

Nobby undid his trousers and checked his underwear.

Vetinari started laughing. It wasn’t relieved laughter, and sounded on the brink of an edge until Detritus tapped him on the back repeatedly.


End file.
